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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988163">to mark / mercy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultbug/pseuds/vaultbug'>vaultbug</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hollow Knight (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bug Culture, Burials, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:00:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultbug/pseuds/vaultbug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The word mercy has many uses. Disgrace. Release. To execute. For many long years, the Mantis Lords have waited to grant that mercy to their traitor kin.</p><p>(In the end, it was no mantis that slayed their brother in the garden.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. mercy, and what it brings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> dear child; in your affliction, we granted mercy to you. </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>The first time the Eldest of the sisters heard the word <em> mercy </em> , it came from the tomes of the Wyrm Himself, spoken by the top knight of the palace who came at the King’s request to teach them the ways of the court. He was to stay for a week. The Eldest expected him not to last the first fight, but was pleasantly surprised by the bite the knight had. He fought valiantly, with great <em> humour </em>even, and when he defeated each of them he bowed back with no ill intent. “There was a wager,” he answered when they asked why he held no malice. “I have a fortune to look forward to when I return to my fellow Knights. Dryya will be irate.”</p><p>Defender was his title. He told them to call him <em> Ogrim </em>.</p><p>He was a pleasant teacher, all the same. The Mantis Lords had not met many warriors who managed to hold great discipline and wit to their name. When he was not teaching them the ways of the court (which he managed to make <em> entertaining </em> , despite the Lords not requiring such trivial sentiments) he engrossed them with tales of the King and the Queen’s feats. The youth <em> adored </em>him. The Eldest caught many a nestling lingering in his path, the craven ones hiding in shadows, the brave ones not even deferred by his pungent stench. On the second week, a few of the bolder mantis warriors challenged him too. It ended up he stayed far longer than required  -- practically a month, the Eldest remembered with half-fondness -- and despite the irritation the Mantis Lords felt at his overwelcome, they did not kick him out. </p><p>On the day before he was to depart, the word cropped up.</p><p>“The King granted [mercy] to the assassin,” Ogrim said.</p><p>They did not understand. The Lastborn, just barely older than her last molt at that time, leaned forward in her chair with a noticeable stiffness. Ogrim had bashed her against the ground in her fight with him again a few days before and although she was proud enough not to show it, the Eldest knew she was bruised. "[Mercy]," she repeated. </p><p>Ogrim motioned back to explain. “It is granted to sparring. When an opponent is defeated.” He said a word then, one they did not understand and sighed at their blank looks. “Ah.” He gestured to the knave near him, who took a stance and flung themselves at him. With a sheer bat the knave was sweeped, then pinned beneath the knight -- who then did not strike a final blow, but rather laughed and helped the bug up. He then turned back to them. “Do you have a word for that? Understand?”</p><p>They did not. A fight, without consequence? Frankly, she had never seen such a gesture done as allowing an opponent off easy, only by timid nestlings who learned quick enough the punishment for that. She had stared down at that white knight (upbeat despite the danger surrounding him) and for a second her stoic frontage almost wavered to disgust. Did the bugs of the King allow such motions between them? Here, a mantis would not be able to live with such a disgrace, self-exiling themselves or falling on their own nail for such an action. The only equivalent word of [Mercy] linked to <em> yielding </em> , to <em> suicide </em> . She ran the word through her head again, the sound of it and found it repulsive. <em> Mer-cy </em>. An ugly word.</p><p>Her siblings agreed with her, although their faces did not show it. Her brother's eyes were dark. (Back when <em> he </em>lived with their rule. Back when there were two Midborns and they both shared ruling with considerably more ease.) His eyes passed over the knave with a scoff. “They truly expect us to learn these words of disgrace?” He seethed at them. “An offense. We will not reforge our language for a King who refuses visit, for a word that we have no use for.”</p><p>He was right then, of course, to speak so boldly of the King. Ogrim stared back and although his gaze remained light, the steel in his voice next suggested warning. If he had not defeated them justly and with zest, the Eldest would have struck him down on the spot. “[Mercy] is not disgraceful, not always that," the knight said. "Before I continue, I ask you, what do you do with your elderly, the frail? Kill them?"</p><p>No. Those who were useless or found themselves old and frail left the village to seek out their own deaths in the caverns of the beast, a final test of their worth. The spiders -- crude as they were -- never defiled that, did not send the heads or drained corpses of their elderly back to the village. It provided those beasts nutrients, a fresh meal rather than grubs and centipedes. An unsteady alliance. "We let the beasts take them," her brother answered. "Does your King kill?"</p><p>Ogrim hummed. "Mercy," he said eventually, "Can be efficient. Imagine you were cut down and had no legs, no means to run. You'd want your opponent to end it then. My King has subjects he's conceived of his own design and rids of them himself when they break. They would run amok if he did not. That is merciful. That is the King's way."</p><p>She tilted her head. "And what happened of the assassin then?" She asked. </p><p>Ogrim chuckled and his voice was fond when he spoke. "Ah, my King can be sly. The court would've wanted the assassin on trial, a lengthy, <em> boring, </em>process." The next words were almost sharp. "So he gave the fool mercy and cleaved him in two."</p><p>She leaned back in her throne. Her sibling's gazes were strict and analyzing on her. Her brother's was full of begrudging respect.</p><p>Ogrim waved his claw. "Ah, here I go musing about the past again," the jolly knight said, sounding almost abashed of his own behaviour. "Forgive me. Let's return to the topic at hand. What else did you want to learn?"</p><p>(When he left the village, they sent him with his knave alive and a crest of honour. His humming was missed in the weeks to come.)</p><p><em> Mercy </em> then, was implemented in their language but not without some resistance. They discussed using it during their training, fighting while speaking to each other in broken common tongue. Their brother was against it entirely. “I will not stand for vulgar words assimilated into our dialogue as if we are <em> beasts </em> in need of educating,” he said stiffly across the arena. “The concept of <em> mercy </em>--”</p><p>“Is a word we require knowledge of when we go to the court,” the other Midborn spoke. She was a quieter kind, more reserved in her tastes; but when she spoke it was a crisp, sudden thing. She blocked her brother’s nail and rapped him hard against one claw. Her brother hissed and retaliated. “The common tongue is a difficult thing to master. We cannot pick and choose what words are in it.”</p><p>“But to bring it into our language is ridiculous,” their brother replied. “The King has shown us no signs of worthiness. His subjects, yes, but himself has refused greeting on our grounds. We should not be allowing him advantage over us. We are endangering our own prosperity.”</p><p>“You fear words as if they rot us.” The Midborn spat. “What, is your discipline undermined by its presence? Are you too craven to face the inklings of change?”</p><p>Their brother bared his mandibles but said nothing. </p><p>So mercy became one of their words and they went to the court to discuss terms of a truce -- and when it was done, the word was forgotten.</p><p>At least for a while.</p>
<hr/><p>(The colour orange was a sickly thing.)</p>
<hr/><p>The Eldest Lord prided herself on keeping her eyes vigilant. Prided the village for weaving itself so shut even the slightest stench of infection could not be sensed in its inners. Prided the mantises who struck down those bloated corpses, the blacksmiths who forged endless spears to crush back the beasts in the nest even when their own hands grew bruised and worn and their backs slumped from bending over anvils. Even their own villagers, infected by the plague, were done away, by friends, family, lovers. They had done what the King’s court could not, with only spears and conviction. No useless truces. No overthought plans. Just dedication and determination, and a blunt axe to those who were too weak.</p><p>(The village outlasted a Kingdom. No shame in taking pride from that.)</p><p>It was funny then, that their greatest challenge came from internal affairs. Not from husks that wandered the fungal wastes, or spiders (half-blind in their madness) that rose up from the nest to claw and dig into mantis soldiers. It came from her brother. For so long, she trusted the judgement of her fellow lords. Trusted that they would remain as responsible as her. They had, for a while. Nothing was overlooked. But so trusting she was, she kept her eyes fixated outwards. Watched their tribe flourish and prosper, cut away the weakened links and laid them in rows of footstones. She did not watch for signs of orange in her brother’s pupils, did not see him slink away to pray to secret gods in Deepnest. She thought him strong. Thought he could overcome whatever trial that whisper in their minds tried to sway them with, like she and the other Lords had done. </p><p>(The King had offered such fantasies too, in a glimpse at his pale wings. But there was no pride in taking another’s power to increase your own, god or not. To truly become stronger was to will yourself, tame yourself, until the body submitted to the mind. Even if this power could manifest in hues of yellow and orange, she found its sweet stench revolting. Rotten power leads to a rotten husk.)</p><p>He was not strong enough.</p><p>She remembered his bloated body, mandibles dripping orange as he spoke. Decaying core rising up from his stomach like bile. Challenging their rule with both claws drawn, in front of their thrones for all the tribe to see.  “<em> This </em> is power,” he snarled through dripping teeth. “The King is weak. This tribe is <em> weak </em>.”</p><p>His follower’s laughter. Some were crying. Some not. Orange, all around. What did they want in life, she’d never know. Whatever it was, it was greater than their will. Weak minds. Weak links.</p><p>She rose from her throne and her sisters followed, steady in conviction. (Do not care if he was family. Take traces of that affection, bury it, deep down. Brother was dead when he fell to a god. Brother was dead when he betrayed the tribe.) </p><p>“Fight <em> back </em>,” the husk of their brother bellowed.</p><p>They stayed silent to his rotted words. The Eldest rose her spear and slashed his throne down.</p><p>(That was answer enough.)</p><p>Traitor Lord’s answering roar was almost barbaric.</p><p>They intended to grant him release then. Recognized it as one, even if they did not look to one another. The Lords knew the consequences of challenging the thrones, knew what must be done if the brother was to fall. It was a <em> mercy </em>to release their brother’s corpse from whatever seized his body and twisted it as a puppeteer would, just how it was a mercy for the King to kill the assassin without trial. </p><p>But fate had other plans for their brother. He was spared mercy by only his cowardice; he fled the arena. His followers chased him. The Eldest had been overtaken by a single second of pure <em> rage </em>to curse him and the mantis tribe clashed, orange husk with steady claw. When it was done and they could see past the corpses of orange and fallen brethren, the traitor Lord was gone. </p><p>The Lastborn swore. “Cowardly <em> filth, </em>” she said. No one spoke against her. The Midborn sheathed her lance and finally her youngest sister let out the exhale and regained herself. </p><p>A mantis warrior, bleeding on the sides but still head held high, bowed to them. “The bodies?” She asked.</p><p>The Eldest did not need to consider her sisters for this question. “Dispose of the husks. Ours, bury in a chamber no outsider will ever find.” She sheathed her own lance then, and only recognized how her arms quaked from the ferocity she put into her strikes. Dimly she recognized some husks were cleaved straight in half, orange visage staining their beautiful village a battleground. Dangerous signs, if she had lost her mind during battle. A leader did not rule on wrath alone. “Find any stragglers, grant them <em> mercy </em>.” </p><p>(The word was almost a curse.)</p><p>The mantis warrior bowed once more. </p>
<hr/><p>The traitor Lord did not re-emerge from exile. His name -- blotched from the history of their village, erased as if struck down by a lance -- vanished from their tomes, their teachings. Nestlings learned to whisper the word <em> traitor </em>as a curse, reverently side-eyeing the crumbling ruin of his throne with awe. He’d be forever an example of why one should never cross the tribe. </p><p>Though he left one last stain on the tribe and that came hushed at night, when the tribe slumbered and only a skeleton crew manned the walls of their village. The midwife of their tribe came to them, impassive in voice but her claws shaking. “My Lords,” she said after she bowed, urgency in her tone, “I must show you something. Quietly.”</p><p>The Lords followed her and although they remained stoic, the faintest trickle of unease rose in the Eldest’s chest. The midwife took them down the side of the village (to where <em> he </em>had lived) and ushered them into a side chamber that she called home. There she lowered her head in the doorway and said, “Forgive me my weakness, my Lords. I cannot watch.”</p><p>They knew then, why she had brought them here and that unease turned to sorrow. The Eldest turned back around and drew into the adjacent room, followed by her siblings. There, the traitor Lord’s daughter sat, (bold, bright child) and although she seemed healthy, the slump of her body said otherwise. </p><p>(The colour orange was a sickly thing.)</p><p>“Have you come, father?” The traitor lord’s daughter mumbled. She spoke in half-tongues, outsider language. “Che’ knew you would. You understood. Ah, Ze’mer has been called away. The King needs her, more than che’ needs her. Why did che’ not leave with her, with you?”</p><p>Her siblings said nothing but drew their lances. She waved them back. This was something she would do on her own. For respect to the midwife. For respect to her deceased brother. </p><p>She raised her claw and wiped away the orange tears below the daughter’s eyes. Those orange pupils fixed onto her, seized and <em> saw </em>, beyond the affliction and whatever guilt plagued the daughter’s mind. Not so far gone into madness yet, but beyond hope.</p><p>“Please,” the daughter murmured.</p><p>The Eldest exhaled, drew her lance, and thrust in.</p>
<hr/><p>(They buried her in the Queen’s Gardens, in a place where she could rest easy and marked from the thousand corpses of their village, untouched by all. The thorns were easy to mold around her grave.</p><p>The traitor Lord shrieked in the distance, mindless rage and fury contained in one cry. The Mantis Lords listened and hardened their hearts.</p><p>His mercy would come. For now, the daughter would lay as the last of her kind.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I like to think, if Traitor lord's daughter was inflicted by the infection, she'd speak as Ze'mer did. More love in her lover than the tribe showed her for their union.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Burial</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Years passed.</p><p>The word of <em> mercy </em>died from their language ever so slowly, just as the kingdom of the east did. Fewer travellers and prey came through the fungal kingdoms and the Mantis Lords watched with keen attention to the few who did, interested in their prowess. It seemed only the strong-willed remained, and they relished the fights that came with the few who were bold enough to challenge their village. Some died. Others won, but left after a few weeks. It seemed those who lived in the outside world were only wanderers now.</p><p>(a shame, a terrible shame)</p><p>It was late in the year when the Mantis Lords heard of the cicada warrior from a mantis scout. “A warrior of cloth,” was what he told them, bowed in front of their thrones. “Strong, but craven. Ran from our group and dove into the ground where we could not follow.” A pause, then he added, “The leader thought she was unworthy to chase.”</p><p>The leader of the scouts was correct. They inclined their heads in agreement. “Report if she returns,” the Lastborn instructed anyway. </p><p>The mantis scout nodded and left.</p><p>She did not return. But fifteen and five days passed, and the presence of other unfamiliar strangers (a spider in a red cloak, a mapmaker’s idle humming, a pillbug of blue) in their land soon grew stronger and stronger. As did the smell of sickly rot and bile wafting over the fungal ruins, as if every mushroom in the canyon was growing that sweet orange stench from the inside-out. In caution they ordered the scouts back closer around their village and kept a scornful glare on the door to the spiderkin ruins. More and more idle predators had been escaping the silken pits of late, and executing their transgressions was growing tiring. Still, a mantis kept their word, even to dying Kings and dying Kingdoms. The Firstborn would not be the first mantis to bring shame to the tribe by going back on her word.</p><p>And then came along the little one, and the Firstborn knew -- times were changing.</p><hr/><p>Change came one night when they slept.</p><p>Of them all, the Midborn was awake on her throne and it was the Midborn who fetched her from her hammock. “Come. Taste outside. The air is clean,” she said once the Firstborn had blinked the sleep from her eyes. “Something has happened.”</p><p>The Firstborn followed her sister outside. She was right -- the Firstborn could taste the difference in the air. The bile flavour, which had grown increasingly strong in the past few days alone, had suddenly vanished; the air tasted of old, like how it had been when Ogrim had visited. It brought a feeling in her thorax that swelled. Still, it was too soon to celebrate possibilities. </p><p>The Midborn felt the same. Her voice was cautious. “Shall I send scouts to investigate?” She asked. </p><p>"Yes. In three days time.” The Firstborn instructed. “Until then, watch the passageway for spiderkin.”</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>She returned to sleep with her mind turning, and found her dreams plagued by silence.</p><hr/><p>The infection of orange was gone, they found out in the following week. All that sickly bile had drained away from the land as if something had taken its source and squeezed its throat. The Mantis Lords were indifferent to its retreat; its plague had been a mere inconvenience against their will, after all, but it did have great effects on the rest of the fungal canyons. The mushroom folk, so long rotted by the stench, were no longer afflicted; some fell dead, rotten away so deep inside their bodies fell apart, but others regained their senses as if awoken from a long sleep. They had to force many from their borders by force, but the tribe had gotten the sense thousands of souls of the past had suddenly found themselves alive years in the future, disoriented and confused. But that was their problem, not the tribe’s. There would be no pity and charity from them.</p><p>Yet the Firstborn’s mind turned many times to the Traitor of the Queen’s Gardens. The dismissal of the orange had brought him back to her mind, and she found herself wondering on many occasions how he was. It was not that she could invite him back to the tribe -- sickness or not, he was Traitor and would live forever exiled from the clan. But yet. Had he lived? </p><p>Her curiosity eventually grew too much. She invited a scout to her throne one morning when her sisters still slept in their hammocks, watching the youth fidget under her gaze. “I have a task for you,” she relayed. “You were part of the scouts in the Queen’s Gardens, correct?”</p><p>“Yes, my Lord.”</p><p>“Good. You are familiar with its passages?”</p><p>“The best of all, my Lord.”</p><p>Cocky, then. But cockiness was not a sin if the youth was telling the truth. The Firstborn found her fingers twitching idly on her lance. “You shall go back to the gardens then,” she instructed. “You are to examine them thoroughly. I wish to know if the Traitor rots.”</p><p>The scout’s eyes were bright, excited. A fine warrior he may become, the Firstborn thought. </p><p>“Yes, my Lord,” he replied, bowed, and left.</p><hr/><p>He came back five weeks later, half-stained with blood of another and limping. But his gait was prideful and his voice steady when he reported. “The Gardens were full of weakened traitors and unpolluted prey,” he said. </p><p>Her sisters were with her this time and they shared a glance below her. She knew they were irked at not being informed on her impromptu decision. But that would’ve wasted time, arguing about sending a scout and they knew to defer to her judgement when she made singular decisions. </p><p>The scout said, “Of the Traitor, he is dead.”</p><p>“How?” The statement was rash from her mandibles. She regretted it the moment it leaked out. Yet she was not reprimanded by any glances from her siblings and she supposed they, too, felt that uneasiness from the scout’s proclamation. </p><p>“He was defeated in combat by the cicada warrior,” the scout said. “Shattered by her club.”</p><p>How so? The craven prey had fled their warriors. How could a coward defeat her brother? Yet she cut those thoughts off as soon as they surfaced. The Lastborn clearly felt the same, for she thudded her lance against the ground and snarled. “The Traitor could have not fallen prey to her,” she snapped.</p><p>The scout blinked, then said, “I have reported exact details. They lay next to each other in a battlefield of traitors, my Lords.” </p><p>Unbelievable. But something in the Firstborn’s heart was thudding, <em> true, true </em>. She drew herself up. “Show us,” she commanded.</p><p>"Yes, my Lords,” the scout said.</p><hr/><p>When they arrived, the battleground -- for it was a battleground, with broken bodies and snapped limbs scattered to and fro about the old Kingdom’s architecture -- was silent. The Firstborn stepped lightly between cleaves in the ground and large scratches against the rusted white walls. She did not look at the traitors, for their bodies deserved to rot, but kept her eyes peeled for any unfamiliar faces. The mantis scout followed obediently to a certain point, before he grew bold and said, “The two are lying just past that hill.”</p><p>She forgave him for his imprudence. She was young once and knew the restlessness of being a youthful warrior. Either he would die because of it, or grow wise. To where he indicated all three made their way, still examining the field for others. The mantis scout remained at the entrance, quiet. </p><p>Ah. There he was. The traitor’s carcass laid on its side, still bloated in death, and she approached quietly, tilting her head as she did so. Her sisters did likewise, and that’s how they stumbled upon <em> her </em>.</p><p>It was clear upon first glance the unknown warrior of cloth had not died peacefully. Yet, as the Firstborn examined the fallen cicada, she thought; So peaceful did she look, lying there, a jagged hole torn through her chest. And him. Oh, how death had granted him a comfort that she remembered; a gentleness to those mandibles, a relaxed look in lifeless eyes. Half his mask and face shattered in, but still he looked at rest.</p><p>It was clear the cicada warrior had not beaten him alone. From what the Firstborn could see of the wounds affixed to the traitor's carcass suggested another assailant. They were of familiar height. The type of nail work done by a shorter bug.</p><p>"The little one," hissed the Lastborn behind her.</p><p>So it was. The Firstborn hummed quietly in her throat. But the little one had not drawn the final blow; the traitor's shattered face was too mutilated for that. No, the large club at the side of the cicada had done that. She could nearly see it in her mind's eye. The traitor claw gutted through, the last crack of the club. A final warrior’s stand before death.</p><p>How honorable. This warrior would deserve a memorial.</p><p>The Firstborn drew her lance. Next to the body she began to swipe dirt aside with heavy strokes, measuring the size of the warrior with occasional side-glances. Her sisters did not immediately follow suit. “What are your intentions?” the Lastborn murmured after a moment.</p><p>“Is it not clear?” The Firstborn said dryly.</p><p>Her sisters looked uneasily at one another. “The Root's territory," the Midborn hummed cautiously and looked to the left of where they stood. The scent of the Root was all too strong here, not like where they buried the Traitor’s daughter, and it discomforted them. The Firstborn knew her sisters were thinking of the Old One’s powers, reminded of the glint of pale and white together when the four had visited their Palace. “Would it be a transgression?”</p><p>"This is Her territory only if the Root wishes to exact Her Old Power and reclaim the Throne Her partner left behind," the Firstborn reminded. "If old Queens have quarrels with memorials, She will be subject to our same laws applicable to everything else."</p><p>"She will have to challenge," Midborn said.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>That sated her sisters. "Her name for the headstone?" the Lastborn queried after a moment.</p><p>“Humble warrior of cloth," the Midborn said. "She wears the poorest of masks."</p><p>“Agreed.” To the mantis scout she now called, and he approached with head bowed but curious eyes fixed on the corpses they lingered over. “You, boy, go back to the village and have the crafters forge a headstone for this warrior. She has killed the shame of our village and I honour her for that. Tell them to title it the warrior of cloth.”</p><p>The mantis scout nodded respectfully and then he was off. The Firstborn turned back to her sisters. “And of burial?” She asked them. “What do you suggest?”</p><p>“I would suggest cremation,” said the Lastborn. “Humble warrior, reduced back to humble origins.”</p><p>“Agreed,” the Midborn concurred. “Some ash will rest here. The rest I will scatter with the bodies of our kin. She will have company with our warrior brothers and sisters.</p><p>“Yes,” the Firstborn said and they began to gather shrubbery for the fire.</p><hr/><p>The body burned for twelve minutes before the shell began to collapse in on itself. Only then did the Lastborn extinguish the flames and let the pieces rest in the deepened grave. Together they piled dirt back over top and planted the seeds of spikes around the tomb. No one would disturb her now. The warrior of cloth could rest easy.</p><p>When they were done their work and the grave laid still, the Firstborn rose up from her duty and bowed her head. Her sister followed suit, as tradition. It was customary to say final words over the grave before leaving the thorns to grow.</p><p>But what to say? What fitting words suited these moments? The Firstborn thought of the Traitor, his reign, his madness. How feral he had become. Then her thoughts drifted to Ogrim. The glint of another Great Knight's unrecognizable body laying farther away brought his memory to mind. <em> Mercy, </em>she thought.</p><p>Ah.</p><p>"We honour your mercy," she murmured and touched her lance to the gravestone.</p><p>And how simple it was to say that.</p>
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